


a very short sermon

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-20
Updated: 2008-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:59:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1640198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward's first sermon at Delaford is a nerve-wracking affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a very short sermon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for mrsronweasley

 

 

**a very short sermon**

Christmas morning dawned over Delaford, in most un-English fashion, dazzling bright, the sky sweetly blue over roofs and hedgerows crisp with snow. Elinor watched Edward adjust his clerical collar with care -it was his first Christmas in the new parish and the thought of the service had been somewhat exercising his mind - and bit her lip over the smile. He caught her eye in the mirror and smiled ruefully back, his hands ceasing their nervous motion about his cravat and sleeves, and the anxious lines about his mouth vanishing with the smile.

"Mrs Ferrars," he said, holding out his hand, and she put her hand on his arm, looked at it there; her hand with its plain gold band over his neat black sleeve. She took a quick, deep breath of the clear winter air.

"Edward."

*

Edward had ceased to stutter in the pulpit, at least, and his sermons themselves were very good, being composed of clear simple good sense and the gentlest of principles, but he never would make an orator: his tranquil voice still had that cautious, hesitating intonation that had once driven Marianne to distraction, fumbling over Cowper. She tucked her hands more securely into her muff, firmly repressed a yawn, and composed her face to attention - Elinor was just opposite, after all, and the Brandon family pew was not so cloistered that Marianne's expression would not be clearly visible. 

"Amen. Hymn number two hundred and fifty six," Edward announced, animation creeping into his voice for the first time in his relief at being done. Marianne's gaze involuntarily went to Elinor. Elinor was watching her already, composed, the corners of her mouth tucked firmly in, but a hint of unruly laughter flickered across her expression as Edward hurried down from the pulpit with more speed than solemnity, and Marianne lifted her voice in song and let the giggle escape through the first line of hymn number two hundred and fifty six.

*

"Thank you," Edward said. "Thank you. Yes. So delighted that you are better, Mrs Thompkins. Thank you, Lady Grey. Colonel ." He smiled his sweet half-smile, then, bowing. "Marianne. Margaret. Was it very bad?"

"I liked it," Margaret announced in a tone of extreme magnanimity. "It was very nice. And short. _Oh,_ " as Marianne pinched her elbow hard. "I said I liked it!"

"Thank you," Edward replied, his eyes warm with laughter, and then Mrs Henderson came up and he turned away to make his bow to her and ask after her rheumatism. The parishioners, despite the sermons, had grown fond of Edward for his quiet zeal and his earnest hard work, and they all paused for a word or two beyond the mere _good morning and merry Christmas_ of convention, while Mrs Dashwood, Colonel Brandon, and her daughters clustered in a corner of the churchyard, Marianne leaning on one of her mother's shoulders and Margaret leaning on the other.

"You will take Christmas dinner with us, of course," Colonel Brandon said. "Mrs Prosser has quite exceeded herself."

Margaret, who was past the age of inquiring frankly about the pudding but not quite past the age of speculating hopefully about the matter, despite her best efforts, brightened despite herself. She had moped, rather, about missing Sir John's Christmas ball at Barton but she had been promised as many as she chose in the new year, and the smell of warm roasting chestnuts when they entered the dining room at Delaford that evening, the bright glitter of candlelight on silver and the deeper crimson glow of the fire, promised some reward for her self-sacrifice in complying with her mother's scheme.

*

After dinner, they retired to one of the smaller rooms in the manor, that had been fitted up into a neat modern parlour; it was there that Marianne had her pianoforte, her desk, those of her books that had could not be accommodated by the orderly shelves of Delaford's library, and several of Elinor's drawings. The fire dwindled and crackled; Margaret declared with determination that she had never felt more awake and then drowsed on the sofa, her mother not having the heart to send her to bed; and Marianne leaned on Elinor's arm, her cheek flushed bright and eyes sparkling, her long curls dropping over her cheek and making her seem seventeen again, her fingers pleating Elinor's skirt. 

"All the same books, " Elinor said, smiling, picking one up from the sofa where it lay and then she glanced at the title and the corner of her mouth curled up in that dry little smile that Marianne knew well. She opened the book. "Shall we have some reading?"

Edward startled; so did Marianne; Elinor found her page with some deliberation and looked up at the Colonel.

"Colonel?"

He took the book obediently enough, though his keen gaze ran curiously from Elinor to Marianne, the corner of his mouth quirking at the joke he perceived was between them. Then he turned his attention to the verse.

"Obscurest night involved the sky, the Atlantic billows roar'd." He read very quietly, in the low deep tone that came naturally to him, but he spoke the words very distinctly, with concentration, the long line between his eyebrows deepening. Marianne's hand was utterly still on Elinor's knee.

 _No voice divine the storm allay'd,_  
No light propitious shone;  
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,  
We perish'd, each alone:  
But I beneath a rougher sea,  
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

There was a long silence when he paused, his fingers lingering between the pages of the book and his eyes dark and lost in the middle distance; then Marianne drew an audible breath. His eyes went to her immediately and whatever was in her expression made him flush unexpectedly vividly and half-smile at the same time, something strangely youthful in his expression. 

"My light," he said, very low. 

Edward cleared his throat. Elinor blinked, released, and prepared to change the subject but Edward lifted his glass to her, his mild eyes very solemn.

"An excellent sentiment," he said, without a stumble. "Light propitious."

Elinor raised her glass and murmured, "light"; her mother spoke the word at the same time, fervent, and so ended their first Christmas at Delaford. 

 


End file.
